Connection
by Radioheaded
Summary: Chance only leads to opportunity. The rest is up to you.
1. Move Past

The barren wasteland of frozen ground is still; people don't venture out for fun. It's too cold, the world too hard. Unforgiving. The snow has turned grey and black, unable to stay pure.

Can anything?

Wilson sits on his couch, his neck turned severely, looking out the window. His gaze slides over nothing and everything; his view is out of focus, the iris letting the pupil remain tiny. He likes the swirl it creates, likes the soft focus the world has taken on. No sharp corners, no angles. But a noise behind him breaks the crystalline beauty of his hazy world; his eyes move reflexively and the pupil opens, letting in as much light as it can.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" It's House. Wilson doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge the presence that stands illuminated behind him, letting in zebra-stripes of light. Instead he looks down at the passersby; they move through the world quickly, brushing off the chill that clings to their warmth as they enter buildings or cars.

"Wilson." The tone is expectant, almost curious.

"Headache, House." It's a lie, but it doesn't matter. His voice is steady, so it may as well be true.

"Want a Vicodin?" Wilson hears a rattling as House reaches for his pocket; he winces almost imperceptibly at the ricochet of pills.

"I'm fine, House. Just Go." It's a thin voice that arcs up through his vocal chords; an empty sound that rebounds in House's ears.

"You've been an oncologist how long, Wilson? Patients die. Get over it." House moves to hit the light switch, but his hand is stopped by Wilson's voice.

"Don't turn on the light. Just get out." Still Wilson faces the window; his reflection is hazy, gives main attributed but leaves the details misty.

"Pathetic." It's not a scathing tone; it's not even a raised voice. But Wilson's head dips, and House leaves, satisfied.

Wilson remains there, looking out at scenery that has infected him. He's cold, so cold; it's seeped through his skin, sinking down under each layer until it reached his internal organs. The cold stays there, encasing the wet hot confusion that is his body. It fights to stay normal, to remain at homeostasis, but he can feel himself slipping, letting the cold in more each day. He looks down at the palm of his hand and sees the lines. They look deeper in the silver light that bathes him; moonlight turns the small pill in his hand a dark blue color. Like a reflex arc, his hand moves up and back, toward his mouth. The pill is deposited and he swallows, hoping chemical reactions will help him forget the day.

House is right; he's too old for this. He's seen people die, even held their hands as they did so. But sometimes, when they're so young, it just gets to him. And they were young today.

But it's time to go. So he gets up and walks down empty corridors, listening to the soft tap of his shoes. The clinic doors open to release him and his breath is taken by the freezing wind, pushed back into his lungs. He coughs, once, twice, and can breathe again. The walk to his car is too long, but he makes it, gets in and shuts the door between himself and weather that would like nothing more than to cradle him, to hold him in its arctic arms until his blood freezes in his veins.

The thought is forgotten when he starts the car and blasts the heat. He waits a few minutes, letting the air caress his numb face before he pulls away from the hospital.

He speeds, though he knows he shouldn't. But it's late, and though the hotel is bleak, he wants to sleep. Wants to shut his thoughts off, wants to forget existence for a few hours. He just needs a break, that's all. Then he can get up and start it all over again, the day-in, day-out, soul-numbing work that has become monotony. He wonders if it's normal to see death as monotonous, if someone can see it everyday and come out unaffected. He knows he hasn't.

His thoughts are interrupted by the neon flashing of red and blue lights; an ambulance and police cruiser sit on either side of the road. Wilson slows to a crawl but is waved through by a bored-looking cop who flicks his hand up and down impatiently.

So Wilson drives on; the familiarity of the road lets his mind sink down into a trance and he's 'home' soon enough. He walks briskly through brittle air, clutching his coat so tightly to his body that he's half hugging himself, fingers anchored into his sides.

The concierge greets him as he walks into the too-bright lounge of the hotel; Wilson offers a polite smile and continues to his room, where he takes too much Tylenol pm and watches some sort of Lifetime movie of the week. The film is almost over when the drug seeps into his system, coating his cells with delicious drowsiness. He gets up, shuffles into bed clumsily and lets his eyes close. He drifts away smoothly, relinquishing control of his body.

Images begin to form in his mind; they become autonomous as he slides into a deep sleep. He's driving again, moving past the accident on the side of the road. This time, the policeman stops him, asks him if he'll be alright.

"What are you talking about?" He asks, looking up at the cop. He tries to go on, tries to drive away, but his head is so heave, so warm….something drips across his forehead, over his eye and he's falling, falling into a red and black swirl that tosses him like a rag doll.

Then there's a voice above him, a voice that says everything will be alright; it's ok, Wilson. Just relax. It'll be over soon. He tries to identify the voice; it's distinct, one he knows, but he can't place it.

A flash of blue eyes appear in his mind; he wakes for a split second then rolls over, sighing quietly.

A tow truck pulls off to the side of the road where a police cruiser waits. The driver gets out and begins to hook the car up; when he finishes, he asks for the owner's name.

"Registered to Gregory House," the cop says. "Give me your card; we'll put it in his possessions so he can claim it when he wakes up."

The tow truck driver surveys the car; it found a resting place in the trunk of a tree and crumpled like tin-foil.

"_If_ he wakes up," the driver mutters, before getting back in his truck.


	2. Reality?

House is dreaming. He knows this as soon as he stands; as soon as pressure is put on the dead muscle and connective tissue that was once a real leg. He leans on the wall, grasps for his cane, but stops short upon two realizations.

The first is that his cane is gone. He clicks his teeth, bares them and wonders who he'll have to kill for screwing with him. He puts his weight into his left leg and arm, tightens the remaining muscles of his right leg and begins to use it as a pendulum, a forward motion that plants his left foot steadily into the carpet.

The second realization doesn't take long. He releases the wall, moves his hand down into the dip he tries to ignore; he massages it hastily, wondering if it's just numb.

But no; he can feel his fingers through the soft fabric of his jeans, can feel the floor underneath his shoes. What he can't feel is that searing hand that squeezes his cells, that puts his mind on hold and misfires his synapses. His enemy, his constant companion, has vanished.

He tests the theory by taking a few small steps, forward and backward. Nothing. No pain. But House is House, and this is too good to be.

"Just a dream," he says to the air of his empty office. It's almost cruel; a few hours reprieve, only to wake up broken once more. But for now he's whole, or at least his mind thinks he is. So he steps out of the office, breaking into a run. His breath comes quickly but easily, moving through his blood, supplying his body. He's made to run, had a graceful length about him his entire life.

He stops in front of Cuddy's office; the lights are dim and she stands there alone, her back turned to the doors. He opens the door, lets it slam loudly, but she doesn't react to the noise.

Huh.

She had to have heard him. She's ignoring him, that's all. So he plays along, creeps up behind her and waits for her to turn around.

She doesn't.

"You know," he says, grasping her arm lightly, "This should be a new arrangement. It's a better view." She doesn't reply, merely shivers and pulls her arms to her chest.

"God, House," she whispers, turning around. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he sees her face. Something's wrong; there are tears in her eyes and she sits down heavily, shielding her face in the palms of her hands.

He walks away, but not before pushing a box of Kleenex toward her and sternly telling her to 'man up.' She sniffs in response, and he's in the hall again, wondering who he can torment.

It's his dream, after all. There should be minions everywhere, eagerly waiting for a tongue-lashing. He walks absentmindedly, turning right and left at random. The ER appears in front of him, brightly lit. Recently bleached-blonde hair and a size of extra-small scrubs alert him to Cameron's presence; he quickens his pace and taps her shoulder. She doesn't turn.

"One of those dreams," He realizes. He could be walking around naked and no one would notice him. He's never been this lucid before, though. He sidesteps Cameron, moves to look at her face, but she looks through him. Her eyes, though, are red-rimmed, like Cuddy's. She sighs, seems to pull herself together and moves away, walking quickly. Chase appears around the corner, walking quickly toward her.

"You ok?" he asks, his accent stretching out the syllables softly. He'd never admit it, but he'd always liked Chase's accent. American syllables are harsh, biting. House watches as Chase wraps his arms around his girlfriend; she's so small his hands almost reach his own shoulders.

"Fine," she says. It's muffled, said into his scrubs.

"See you later, then." Chase's hand lingers on hers; they move past each other but stay connected until their fingertips grasp air.

"I'm just going to check on him." Cameron's voice is quiet; she speaks to herself. House, curious, follows her into the elevator, then into the intensive care unit. She comes to a stop in front of a bed; the vitals of whom she gazes at are steady.

"Talking to the vegetables, Cameron?" House smirks, moves closer to the bed to examine the patient. It's a man; his head is bandaged and his face is an amalgam of bruises and lacerations. House watches as Cameron pulls back an eyelid and checks for pupil contraction.

The eyes….they're familiar. A light shade of blue….almost too bright. They almost don't fit on the thin, sharply-angled face to which they belong.

Cameron makes a few notes on a clipboard. She sniffs softly and House sees that her eyes are shining. Her hands shake as she replaces the file.

"Bye, House."

"What are you talking about?" House snatches the chart, reads the small print and then the room gets smaller; the air harder to breathe. His name is there, his birthday too. His blood type. Weight. All there, in neat print; its only significant marker is a distinctly loopy 'g.'

"No." It's a whisper at first, a breath that barely leaves his mouth. Then it's louder, louder, louder until he's screaming at the top of his lungs, yelling for someone to look at him, to talk to him. But no one reacts, no one hears, no one sees.

He tries touching the man on the bed—it can't really be him—but as soon as his fingers slide over the too-soft blanket his hand goes numb; it travels up his arm until he can't feel anything, anything and then he's falling, or sitting maybe, but either way the floor has suddenly come much closer. He's breathing fast, choking now, but no one notices. Nurses step around him, shivering if they come too close.

"Get a hold of yourself," the voice comes from inside, a stern, low tone that sounds like his father. "Stop whimpering."

By the time he collects himself, a pair of almost-French shoes have made their way to his—can it really be?—bedside.

"House, I—"

"Wilson, I'm right here. You have to hear me. Just, I don't know—" But Wilson's turning away, turning toward the nurse and asking her if she heard that. She looks at him, frowns, and asks what he's talking about.

"Nothing," he says, turning pale. "Nothing."

House takes a look back at himself before following Wilson to his office.


	3. Alone, Together

Wilson swears he heard something. Something faint, something pale; a reed-like voice that curled around his eardrums, cracking and breaking with interference. But, no. It's not possible. No one else heard anything. It's psychosomatic. That's all; he wants he hear that voice, wants to be consoled. It's not real.

As soon as Cuddy had walked up to him slowly, arranging her facial features until they were gentle, concerned, he knew something was wrong. The words came at him in slow motion; he caught every third. Accident. Blood loss. Coma. Non-responsive. House.

He's not sure when he began moving, but soon enough he had left Cuddy behind, staring at his back while calling his name half-heartedly. She rubbed her temples and smoothed her skirt, then followed him.

Wilson found House in intensive care; Cameron was leaving as he arrived. She looked up at him, met his eyes and said that he was stable but unresponsive. He may have nodded. And then he was by House's bedside, alone but for the sickly-sweet remnants of Cameron's perfume. He shook slightly as he looked at the chart. No damage to internal organs. Various cuts, bruises, a few broken bones. A concussion.

Now they're just waiting for him to wake up.

So he stares down at House, waiting. He expects his eyes to open; he wants a groggy smirk to twist those thin lips, wants House's mouth to open and begin spewing the insults that came to him like second nature.

Because that's what happened before; he'd opened his eyes, examined his burnt palm and professed his love for Wilson's enabling.

Wilson moves to the side of the bed, lets his fingers brush House's shoulder. He leans in, tells the sleeping man to wake up so Wilson can knock him back out again into a state of narcotic bliss. House would like that.

"Wilson."

The voice is right beside his ear; he straightens up, looks around for the person calling him but finds nothing. So he shakes it off, checks House's vitals.

"Wilson, I'm right here. You have to hear me; just—" The voice is there again, achingly familiar but painfully far away. A grimace reshapes his features; he stares down at the sterile blue-checked blankets that hide House's body. A nurse approaches without him seeing; red nails move into his field of vision, grasp his arm and a soothing voice comes out; he hears but can't understand.

"I'm sorry. Did you just hear someone?" He looks at her, dark hair, soft features, inviting eyes and she looks back, her expression deepening from concern into worry.

"No, Dr. Wilson. I didn't hear anyone." She keeps her hand on his arm; his skin gives up its heat and she pulls away the fever that threatens to pull him under.

"I'm sorry," he says. And he is. He's so, so sorry. His lips part and he smiles or grimaces, but either way it's a look of dismissal. The nurse understands, lets her hand slip from his flushed skin and turns to watch him leave.

The walk to his office is quiet; it's still early so all he hears is the click click click of his too-fancy shoes. He reaches the elevators and gets in, leaning back against the wall as the doors slide smoothly shut.

"Wilson." It's there again, right next to him, so close he can feel cool breath in his ear. A strangled gurgling pushes against his teeth, fights to leave his body but he pushes it back down, closes his eyes and waits for the elevator to stop, to let him out of the empty that's bent on playing tricks on his mind.

He keeps his head down on the walk to his office, makes sure not to meet anyone's gaze. And then he's in, locks the door behind him and sits down heavily on his couch.

Wilson tries to still his mind, tries to think about anything other than his friend's comatose body laying a few floors below, but every time he shuts his eyes, he sees the lanky frame exposed, stuck with tubes and needles. It doesn't fit; he's lived through too much. He can't be weak. He doesn't know how to be.

It's funny, Wilson thinks; House needn't have stuck a knife in an electric socket. All he had to do was wait a few weeks. Wilson wonders what a coma's like. Is it a sort of dream? A long, tangled web of images careening through the mind like a car without breaks? Is it like sleeping after having been awake for days, until every fiber of one's being is drenched in exhaustion?

"Stop," he mutters, lying back on the couch. He'll take a nap. Clear his mind. Forget for a few hours. His appointments have all been cancelled anyway. He turns toward the back of the couch, burrows his face into the cushion. He doesn't like the idea of anyone being able to see his face while he's asleep. It's to open, too vulnerable. The image of House's relaxed brow, inert skin stretched across angular cheekbones makes him shudder.

"God, House." The words come out like a sigh, heavy with regret. Wilson's mind starts to let go, leaks chemicals into his bloodstream that let his body go limp and his mind go free.

But as he drifts away, he's called back by that voice, a voice that can only be inside his own head.

"Wilson. I'm right here." Wilson wonders if he's going crazy; he knows he's imagining the voice, knows it can't actually be there, but nonetheless it's comforting. The gravel of House's voice soothes him somehow.

His office gets cold suddenly—or, no. Wait.—He gets cold suddenly, as if someone has poured ice water down his back. He shivers, wraps his arms around himself, but is startled by a shout.

"Wilson! Stop moping and pay attention!" This gets his attention.

"House?" his voice is uncertain; halfway through a tremor moves through his body and the name cracks, lets loose emotion he's been trying to hold back.

"Who else would haunt you?"

Wilson rolls his eyes, starts to answer but quickly catches himself. "This isn't real. This is a figment of my imagination. I'm stressed and haven't slept. That's all."

Wilson gets up, leaves his office and tells Cuddy he's going home. She nods, looks concerned and studies his face discreetly. He looks distracted, as if he were listening to two conversations at once and trying to keep up with both.

But everything's quiet when he gets in the car; the engine turns smoothly and he's gaining momentum, moving away from things that can't happen.

His car is freezing, though the heat is on. So he turns it up all the way and thinks he's driving to his hotel.

It's not until he reaches House's apartment that he realizes he's intended to go there all along.


	4. This Time Tomorrow

Wilson is in his car, gripping the wheel tightly so the skin of his hands blanches, pales to the milky color of paper. He whispers something, maybe 'fuck it,' and gets out of the car.

House doesn't know what Wilson has said, because he's been waiting outside the door to his apartment for about ten minutes, waiting for him. He'd watched Wilson crouch over the wheel, his head resting lightly on the wheel like he was asleep. But he knows better; he knows that the wheel, in the protective cage of the car is the only thing holding Wilson down. It's an anchor, one he's afraid to move from for fear of being washed away in the current, unable to come back.

Analysis done, House had moved from the car, opened the door and wondered why Wilson couldn't see that objects around him had begun to move on their own. The metal of the door was solid under his fingertips, but when he looked at the door, it was shut. His hand was by his side, grasping a belt loop.

"Interesting," he said, and Wilson looked up sharply at him—no, _toward_ him. Eyes that were a bit too bright, a bit too shiny searched for something that just wasn't there; when they couldn't find their target, they shut, leaving the light that bent around House pressing against resolute eyelids.

He decided to leave Wilson there, to wait at the door. This was private, a moment that he didn't need to see. It wasn't his to own. So he walked up the few stairs into a drafty hallway and sat down near his door. He whispered to himself about the physics of his situation, about the space-time continuum he had to be screwing with, but gave up eventually. This was an experience he won't ever understand.

"Wilson!" He shouts now, bored of sitting in his hall. The next door neighbor's dog runs to the door, scrabbling at the thick wood. House watches the small paws slide under the door, trying to lift it, trying to get free.

"You can hear me too," He slides forward, sticks his fingers under the door. "Come here Malakai. Come here, boy." A pink tongue lolls out onto his fingers, covering him with sticky saliva. Then the dog is licking him, actively touching him.

"Good boy," he says, removing his hand, wiping the spit onto his pants robotically. He's tangible. He can be touched. Just by animals? Why can't people see him? Why can Wilson hear him?

But Wilson walks in then, looking at the floor. He hears the dog whining next door and looks around quickly, looking again for something that can't be there. And so he takes out a key; House watches as it slides smoothly in, the pins aligning to grant access. Wilson stands there for a moment, suspended between worlds. But he breaks the crystalline moment, shattering it as he moves into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. House enters close behind, almost touching. He smells Wilson, the mix of soap and deodorant and that shampoo he can't pronounce. His senses are heightened, as if he'd lost a sense and the others were making up for it.

But what has he lost?

"Life," Maybe it's because he's in his apartment, _his_ place, where he can talk aloud, theorize about everything and anything that his words aren't internal. Maybe it's the secure feeling of home that pushes air through his larynx, lengthens and shortens his vocal cords and sends waves through the apartment, carrying his voice.

"Life," Wilson repeats, his back to House. "Life."

"I know you can hear me, Wilson." House doesn't move, lest Wilson gets spooked at a change in direction of his voice. "And just to let you know, if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one around, it does make a sound."

"Because there _are_ people around?" Wilson shifts slowly, turning toward the location of the voice.

"You catch on quick," House says, his heart beating faster. If Wilson can handle the situation, maybe he can get back somehow. He keeps his voice gruff, though. Getting sentimental would probably scare the other man off.

"Sorry if my being haunted by the spirit of my friend freaks me out a little." Wilson's voice has that whine to it, like he's speaking out of his nose. House can feel an eye-roll coming.

"So you won't freak out again?"

"I'll try not to." Wilson's eyes jump, roaming around the room. "Where are you?"

House moves directly in front of him. "I'm right here."

Wilson jumps a little, but doesn't move. Instead, his hand reaches out, grasping at what looks like nothing but is in fact House's shoulder. He watches as the air in front of him shimmers, bending and refracting singular beams of light. His hand loses its warmth as he strokes the invisible leather of House's jacket.

"Can you feel that?" He asks, looking slightly upward out of memory. He looks through House's eyes.

"I'm not sure." It's as if House's body is numb; he can feel the pressure, the presence, but no the touch itself. Then—something--the ghost of fingers, maybe? House moves his hand, grasps Wilson's wrist and watches the man shudder.

"What about that?" Wilson closes his eyes, pauses for a moment and says that he thinks he can feel House's grip. House watches as Wilson's lips turn blue, sees the hair on his arms stand up and lets go. He pushes the hand on his collar away and watches as color returns to the other man.

Wilson backs into the couch and sits heavily. He leans into the leather, pushes his shoulders back until an audible popping sound is heard.

House walks around the other side of the couch, sits as far away as he can and props his legs up. Wilson hears this, looks toward him but his gaze is glassy, the focus off. He mutters that it's cold, very cold and his voice is slow, thick like he's just woken up from a deep sleep.

After a few minutes Wilson seems to gain lucidity; House wants to check his pulse but won't risk touching him. So he tells him to talk, asks his about his day, who he saw. Anything to keep him awake.

But Wilson interrupts his questions, cocks his head to the side and speaks slowly, as if trying to find the words to fit what he means to say.

"What happened when you got into the accident?"


	5. Stolen

Wilson shivers as he looks toward the direction of House's voice. Wherever the other man is, it's cold. He'd felt something close over his wrist like a handcuff, then his skin seemed to rid itself of all warmth. He'd tried to hold on, to see if he'd be able to feel the touch of House. But all he felt was empty, like life had been drained from him. But now that he's warm, he asks House questions, one after the other, just to hear his voice. He can't take silence right now.

It's then that the question slips; he doesn't mean to ask it, but it's too late, and he's answered by the quiet of House's apartment.

"I didn't mean—"he begins, apologies falling into his lap to be thrown anywhere he can put them.

"No," House answers. "I don't know; all I remember is you telling me to get out," House looks at Wilson as the other man cringes; "Oh, get over it. It's not your fault." Wilson nods, shows his teeth like he's smiling, but it's just a veil.

"I can't remember driving home. All I remember is being at the hospital again—and that my leg didn't hurt. So I thought I was dreaming."

"You're not in pain?"

"No." It's short. A 'don't ask questions' tone. So he won't. But for a moment he's happy.

"Can you see yourself?"

"No, Wilson. I'm a phantom to my own eyes."

"So—can you, or—"

"Yes, Wilson. I can see myself. I can see my reflection too, so I'm pretty sure I'm not a vampire."

"What are you wearing?"

"Something naughty. What, are we having phone sex? I'm wearing the same thing I was last night."

"God, just asking." He's sarcastic, but can't help the flushed heat that rushes to his face.

"What does it feel like?" Changing the subject is best, he decides.

"I already told you." House's voice is annoyed, but it's closer…in front of him, maybe.

"No, you said you weren't in pain. But what does it feel like?" House didn't acknowledge the question, instead letting silence punctuate the conversation. Wilson said his name softly, heard the edge of nervousness in his own voice and swallowed before saying the name again.

"I don't know, Wilson. It's like being dead, I guess. I don't think I can feel much. Everything's fuzzy."

Wilson acquiesces, gives up his curiosity. But he hedges around his real questions, thoughts that flicker through his mind incessantly, so quickly he has to actively try and remain calm. Like what he's supposed to do. For all he knows, he's the only person able to hear House.

But House begins to say something, or not, really, more of a noise—yes, a sort of 'oh;' a realization, or recognition, maybe.

"What's going on?" He tries to keep his voice steady, and it is. Too bad it's about three decibels too high.

"I think someone's touching me," House says, his voice just above a whisper. "I don't know—there are these images, like I see you but also Cuddy, and she's touching my hand—wait—" But words dissolve into laughter; Wilson waits for an explanation, and as House's guffaws die down, he tells Wilson that Cuddy's offered to sleep with him if he'll wake up.

"I'm surprised you didn't teleport back immediately." Wilson's dry-as-toast voice results in more unrestrained laughter. There's something pressing in the back of Wilson's mind; he can't quite place it. But then—joy. House's laughter. It's something that has to be gained; something that he's only been able to elicit a handful of times. And then—House isn't in pain, the enslaving cage that deadens his nerves, that keeps him removed from the rest of humanity. He's free, almost.

"What's wrong?" The voice is nearer now, somewhere close to his left ear. He answers quickly, shrugs it off as nothing. But he knows House won't take that as an answer, so he gives him something else.

"Nothing, I'm just tired." He stretches his mouth a bit, fakes a yawn that turns real halfway through. His fingers splay on his face, distorting his eyesight. Everything doubles.

"So go to sleep."

"I don't feel like driving to the hotel."

"So stay here." There's something in House's voice that Wilson's never heard before; a sort of desperate note, a tinge of panic.

"Fine." He stands, sliding away from the leather couch. He pauses, turning, to be led. He feels a gust of air as if someone's moved past him and follows, lagging behind to keep from running into House. The other man's voice travels back to him, tells him to crash in the bed. He thanks House, lies down on top of the blanket and stretches out onto his back, limbs splayed. He wonders if House is still there, if he's being watched. His mind is put to rest when he feels the pressure of someone sitting on the edge of the bed. The weight disperses, evens out and a chill builds next to him, but he doesn't move. Eventually he slips away from reality, into dreams where he sees a body to match a voice.

------

House lies next to Wilson for awhile; he's not sure how long. Eventually he realizes he won't be falling asleep anytime soon and sits up, inspects the body next to him. Wilson lays flat on his back; Stacy did the same. He wonders how that's comfortable—he'd always preferred laying on a side, facing the wall or the person next to him. Either way, Wilson seemed content. House leaned in as the other man muttered something incoherent, mashing syllables together until they no longer resembled words. But as House moves closer Wilson shivers, turns away and burrows deep into the bed; so he backs off, gets off the bed and sits on the nightstand. Wilson's tensed muscles relax a little, his breaths evening out until they move his chest gently, rhythmically. House closes his eyes and sees nothing, a void that is somehow ominous; as if something hides within the depths, moving closer when he looks away. So he opens his eyes to the world again, sees that everything is as it should be and relaxes slightly.

A moment passes and he wonders what to do while Wilson sleeps; but his thoughts are cut through by a jagged pain, a force that tears through him like a knife through paper. Images rush through his mind—the hospital, panicked faces peering over him. Someone calls his name, tells him to fight. Tells him not to give up. He tries to keep his eyes open but he's falling away, going under like he's swallowed a handful of Tylenol PM. He hears a ringing….then nothing.

-------

Something vibrates near Wilson's hip; he rolls over, tries to brush whatever it is away, but then words start to enter his dream.

"Pressure, pushing down on me, pressing down on you…"

He groans, realizes it's his phone and flips it open, putting it to his ear.

"Yeah?" It's drawn out, stretched and thick from sleep.

"Wilson?" It's a woman—as his mind clears he realizes it's Cuddy.

"Sorry. I was sleeping. What's up?"

"House. He had a subarachnoid hemorrhage. There's—there's no brain activity." Wilson processes the news; it absorbs into his skin, moves from cell to cell until he's saturated with what it means.

When he can speak, he tells Cuddy he'll be right there.

After hanging up, he calls for House. When there's no reply, he runs through the rooms of the apartment, panic rising in his voice.

But there's no answer.


	6. Nuetral

The feeling isn't bad, House decides. It's like someone running their hands across his body while it's asleep, a sort of faraway pressure that's almost reassuring. He knows that something is off, that he should feel…something, but he instead he's filled with a calm that he's never known before. It's a feeling of utter contentment, of needing nothing outside himself.

And yet, something's off. Something's there, at the back of his mind, stuck like a popcorn kernel in his teeth. There's this feeling in him, so hard to explain; it fills his body to the brim, spilling out into the world through the tips of his fingers, the tendrils of his hair. It's like listening to Pink Floyd or Hendrix that first time; that sort of charged anticipation—expectancy, like anything can happen, like everything is somehow possible. It's openness, a sort of expansion, like his cells have come unglued, spread out so thin they inhabit everything that crosses his path.

Flashes, shocks of knowledge run through him—sorrow and regret and panic and fear, all in different shapes and sizes and tones. The first is high-pitched, an empathetic sort of moan that zings through him, makes his being vibrate until its full to the capacity with emotions he didn't know he had. Then a quiet, low sort of hum that's nostalgic, sorry but not really regretful. Something like, "He'd want to go out this way," in a husky tone; the shake in the voice belies the courage, though.

And then he sees, knows what's happening; it's the omniscience, the vast and unending information that unfolds in front of him through those nearest. It's the blue eyes he sees and feels, light and crisp, cool and dry—and the one dark pair that's missing, the blurred-edged warmth that's like sinking into an embrace.

And then he's breathing hard—breathing again, in and out, rasping as his lungs begin the cycle they forgot for a moment. His heart pounds, he sees spots, but then it's easier and he can see enough to stand up, pull his body up by grasping the bed that belongs to what was, at one point, him. He stares down at it, takes in the chapped lips, the healing scratches and bruises, the rhythmic beeps that coincide with the forceful revolution of breaths that push his chest hard, up and down. He steps back from his body and realizes he's been touching his own hand, lightly between the frame of the bed. He's not numb anymore; instead his fingers travel over smooth skin, a hand still shiny from a burn, an arm covered lightly with hair and then a face that isn't his anymore. He runs a hand over it, feels the warmth, and knows he can't go back. Again, he knows something should be felt—something. But nothing happens; his hand returns to his side and he's silent for a moment, saying goodbye.

And then something familiar passes over him, like the scent of someone who'd just sprayed perfume or taken a shower; it billows around him, covers him and he turns to see that warmth, that darkness. Wilson.

The other man reaches the bedside, notices the chill that hangs in the air and shivers; his mouth barely opens but a soft whisper comes out.

"House?"

He moves to Wilson's right, leans into his ear so his lips just barely touch the skin and tells him he's there.

Wilson sighs, steps closer to him by reflex and feels his heat begin to drain into House's icy being. He stays, though, and asks him if he knows what's happened, if he knows the news.

House nods, and then realizes he's still invisible.

"I'm brain dead." And he should be sad, but he's not because he's close to someone who can hear him, who can feel him and he knows it was worth coming back for.

"Where did you go?" Wilson asks, so quietly House barely hears him. A tremor runs through the question, vibrates through the choking in Wilson's throat that threatens to close the pathway, threatens to pierce behind his eyes and make itself truly known.

House thinks about how to word where he was, tries to imagine it again and feels a pull, a jolt like someone grabbing him from behind. He holds himself down, keeps himself whole, and tries to answer as best he can.

"I was—everywhere. I was somewhere and it was everything."

"Heaven?"

"I don't know. But—it was like being a kid almost, you know? That inability to understand limit—to see and hear and feel everything." The pull is stronger now; he has to fight as he describes where he was. But he anchors himself in Wilson's voice, wraps his body in the soft, low tones.

"For you, that's got to be heaven," Wilson says, his eyes taking on that familiar light that they've been so obviously lacking the past few days. Neither notice Chase walk quietly toward the bed until his hand is on Wilson's shoulder; the man jumps, turns around so wild dark eyes meet drowsy blue.

"What's got to be heaven?" Chase asks, and House watches as the other man panics for a split second, trying to figure out what to say.

"Anyplace where his leg doesn't hurt anymore," Wilson says, pulling his features into a solemn frown. House wants to laugh at the sudden transformation, but just shakes his head at ease with which the explanation is accepted. Looking closer, he sees the clear blue of Chase's eyes is rimmed with red; the vessels are a thick, shiny contrast to the light iris.

Chase runs a hand through his hair then wraps his arms around himself. He asks if it's colder over here, then mutters about the nurses turning down the heat. He looks at Wilson askance and asks if it would be ok if he had a moment alone with House; the former nods and walks away, just within sight.

Chase steps toward the bed, grasps the prone hand curled near a mangled thigh. House's breath hitches when he feels a tingling in his fingers, then pressure and warmth. Then Chase is cupping his cheek, whispering that he's sorry they didn't catch the bleed, that he wishes his father were more like House and that he won't forget the time he shared.

House feels slightly nauseated, but is distracted by the renewed warmth on his face and hand; Chase runs long fingers through his hair and walks away, sniffing shallowly.

Wilson walks back and says they should go to his office; House follows quietly, taking a last look at himself before catching up.

It's just before he sits down in Wilson's office that he feels it again, that pull like he's leashed to something and it's pulling him insistently, trying to get him on track, back to where he's supposed to be. It disperses when he sits, but something else takes his place. People are touching him again; hands press into his sides, words make their way through the body that ties him to the world. He listens to the echo. He's being moved to a private room.

---------------

_"Removal of life support in the case of a permanent vegetative state?" Stacy keeps her voice level as she reads the will. "A DNR."_

_House smiles, rubs at his freshly scarred thigh, feeling the ghost of tissue that used to exist. "This time if I die, I'm not coming back."_

_Stacy nods, but wants to tell him he's an idiot—and that maybe she is too. Instead she presses her cool lips against his; they're impermeable, unmoving, and the tongue she tries to inch into his mouth does nothing but wet his lips. His eyes are open when she pulls away; he doesn't shut them anymore._

_She looks over her shoulder at him on the way out, goes to the bedroom and pulls out a phonebook, looking for the number of a cheap moving company._

---------------

"They're going to take me off life support," House says, watching the color drain from Wilson's face. It's like the blood ran backwards, flowing through the veins to pool around the heart. But he continues.

"I have a DNR and orders to remove all forms of life support. I'm in a private room to die."

Wilson looks like he wants to fight; for a second he's animated, alive. Then he sinks back into his desk, puts his hands over his eyes; if he can't see the world, then it isn't real.

"Wilson. Come on."

But the other man's face is in his hands; his breathing is shaky.

"Come on. I've already died once. What's once more?"

Wilson sighs; his hands come down to reveal welled eyes. "You came back last time, though;" he says. "I'm pretty sure this time is for keeps."

House isn't touchy by nature; more so since his leg, but he reaches out, grasps Wilson's hands. They stay still like that for a moment, quiet, not addressing the moment itself, but holding on as long as possible. Wilson holds the cold in, tries not to let House see, but his body betrays him, turns his nails turn purple and makes his hair stand up; and then the cold disappears and the second is over.

They stay in the office together; House feels when Cameron enters his room, kisses him on the cheek and leaves, though she leaves wetness behind on his shirt. Before she's out the door, she turns back, looks just once more, and House feels her regret for doing so.

Cuddy is next; her heels click like a funeral march, slow, even and solemn. He words don't matter; she grips his hand and the emotion pours from her; the strength too. She leaves with shining eyes that don't spill over until the glass door slides shut behind her.

Foreman is the last and the quickest; his goodbye is even, calm, until his voice cracks. He turns on his heel, offers a "Goodbye, House," and doesn't look back.

-------------------------

House cracks jokes; Wilson laughs. They reminisce, talk about nothing. It's not until a knock sounds at Wilson's door that their façade is broken; it's Cuddy, she'd like to speak to Wilson. She enters the office looking like she can't breathe; as if she'll be snuffed out at any moment.

She looks at Wilson, tells him what he already knows and tells him he's the only one House would want to…

Her voice trails, cracking, dissolving into infinity as she tries to fathom how to word her request.

"House would want you to let him go."

And so Wilson follows Cuddy out of the office and feels like he's on the longest path of his life. He knows House is behind him, waiting until they're alone together to give direction.

Then they're outside a sterile room that looks nothing like any place House could exist; Wilson tells Cuddy he has to do it alone, and feels like he's walking into someone's dream as he opens the door wide enough for him and House. He feels hazy, like someone else is pulling the strings to his body; he simply does as he's told.

The door shuts and they're alone.

"You have to do it."

"I can't."

"If you won't, they will."

"House, I _ can't--_I—just can't."

"Wilson—I don't have much time anyway." House breaks; he has to let go. Has to make Wilson let go.

"What are you talking about?" Wilson's eyes are wide; he searches the room for the origin of House's voice. He pushes his hair back hard, so rough it leaves a red mark.

"Something's pulling me. It's getting hard to stay."

Wilson walks over to the bedside; his fingers move toward the button, but he stops.

"Take me with you."

"Wilson, I can't—"

"House, I don't have anyone. You were all I had. And you're leaving, whether I want you to or not."

"No." It's flat. "I wouldn't know how to, Wilson."

" I know you do, House. You do it, or I do it to myself. Decide."

------

To be concluded……


	7. Au Revoir

A small crowd had gathered outside the door; a vigil, waiting for Wilson to walk out. They waited to absorb him, to take him into their midst, comfort him with proximity, if nothing else. They waited, heard the slow decline of House's vitals; the drone and alarm of a lost pulse went off and stayed that way; when it had been going for a few moments, Cuddy slipped inside, ready to pull Wilson from the room.

When she came out again, she fell back against the door; "He's dead," is all she could say, repeating it in short bursts until she was pulled into the arms of someone. They held her, rubbed her back, smoothed her hair. Told her it was ok. It wasn't until she began crying that someone opened the door to the room.

They understood, then, why she had wept.

----------

Wilson had stood there, waiting, when he felt the grip of fingers lock around his wrist. His hand was flung forward into the power button; House whispered to him to lie down. The floor was hard underneath him; he put a hand behind his head and gasped as he was wrapped in cold. Every nerve tried to fire, tried to fight, but was silenced by the all-numbing suction that pulled life from his body.

"Just breathe, Wilson."

He did.

Everything blurred, initially, until the room around him was a swirl of monotonous color; beige, white, blue. And then—and then a mist began to form on top of him, a haze of features. It was like seeing a ghost form; first in black and white, then filled with color.

House.

He looked into the eyes of the man on top of him, it was a millisecond until lips met. They stayed like that, together, until something changed. Until their bodies became things of the past, and all that remained was consciousness.

They stayed like that, touching but not, somehow a part of everything.


End file.
